


Practical Demonology

by clutzycricket



Series: Practical Magic and Impractical Souls [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Practical Magic Fusion, Crack Treated Seriously, Female Friendship, Love Potions are Messed Up, Multi, Multiple Crossovers, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, So are Targaryens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:12:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3217082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clutzycricket/pseuds/clutzycricket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time there were two little girls, brought together by tragedy. They grew as close as sisters, in a rambling old house by the sea, learning magic and about themselves.</p><p>Then the younger girl ran away, to the wider world and the chaos hidden from normal eyes. And the elder loved and lost, before turning away from her dragon-y relatives.</p><p>Unfortunately, Rhaenys is woken with a call in the early hours, and a raging, unsettled Dany at her door. </p><p>There is also a curse, a zombie, and a few other issues going on.</p><p>(Also, a pretty but not-clued-in detective who would like to know the cranky florist better.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Once Upon A Time

She had lost her temper a bit, Rhaenys would admit later, over Asha’s skittles vodka, her head in Brienne’s lap while the blonde tried to unsnarl her hair.  The apartment was a tiny little thing over the flower shop she’d gotten with her inheritance money, half furnished.

 

Which of course meant the futon mattress was on the floor, blankets and pillows as well, and they were all in a pile like when they were still teenagers.

 

(Which, admittedly, wasn’t so long ago, and yet somehow a lifetime ago. Theon’s lifetime, at any rate.)

 

Asha had shot a Look at Arianne, who was shaking her head. “I would have killed them,” she admitted frankly. “I still might- they fucked with Theon as much as you, Scrap, and it got him killed.”

 

Rhaenys, wincing at the reminder of the name her uncle had bestowed on her- Vashti Rhaenys Helena Targaryen was a fucking unfortunate mouthful for a little Scrap of a girl, he’d teased, and because it had been Uncle Oberyn, it had stuck. “Still, I changed my name and moved to New York City, Ash. I don’t usually go for the “life is a song” thing.”

 

“Dany was sixteen when she ran away, you just waited longer,” Arianne pointed out. “And really, you didn’t run off with a tattooed biker twice your age.”

 

Rhaenys tried to shrug. “True. Drogo did help Dany though.” And he’d died, which had proved that her littlest Aunt had loved him. Dany hadn’t been overly specific with the details, but any doubts she had she kept quiet.

 

Though now she was as baffled as anything as to why Theon died, if what Aunt Sheana and Gran had said was true.

 

~

_Once upon a time, there had been a man, and a woman. The man came from a long line of witches, ones who could impose their will on the world with blood and physical things. The woman came from a line of demonologists, who felt the need to help keep the supernatural in check._

_Because the universe had a sense of humor about these things, they fell into a sort-of love, and then she was pregnant, and two angry brothers ensured that he didn’t leave her defenseless, especially because her brothers were suspicious of the man’s Old Money New England family and its habit of disposing of bastards._

_They had another child, thinking it would fix things, and he had a child with another girl, because it didn’t._

_Then one day there was a storm, a curvy stretch of road, and an accident, and the little girl was left alone._

_Her witch grandmother had taken her in, with her own three living children in a rambling old house in an island, because who else would teach her magic? Her uncles could bind spirits and conjure demons, but could they See on the wind, or shape fire like clay?_

_And so the little girl learned._

~

 

There were always places where you could find odd buildings that needed a lot of work, and rearranging things to make a magical safe haven would not raise any eyebrows. The old factory was a perfect example, being divided into stores and apartments.

 

Rhaenys had bought the building, because the Martells were rich in the way that people who routinely trafficked with supernaturals were, and Grandmother Targaryen was rich in the way people who used the Lannister’s as financial planners were rich. (Though Gran and Godmother Joanna did not like each other, for reasons she could half-guess at.)

 

She had taken up writing after school, but she’d always had a talent with flowers, so opening the greenhouse seemed like a good plan. She hired some local crews to help her clean it up and get it started, knowing Dany would kick her ass if she didn’t use her money to help people who weren’t Targs.

 

(Plus, more practically, she preferred making friends. It was nicer than having enemies. Or people who were afraid of you, thank you Mr. Lannister...)

 

And even if she wasn’t using the Targaryen name, Summerhall Greenery quickly picked up the reputation for being a safe haven for supernaturals.

 

After all, when a Targaryen girl told the universe to bend over, the universe asked how far.

 

She planted lavender outside her door, and one of the windows was now stained glass, with a large Martell sun. The whimsical seeming paint job was actually carefully painted and overlapping charms that blazed like the sun to people with the ability to see them.

 

She wasn’t… whole. Not yet- the memory of what had happened, and what had been done to her, hurt too deeply. She’d turn down calls from her Targaryen relatives if they tried, though only her half-brother could find her.

 

(She couldn’t lose Jon, too. Not after losing Egg.)

 

But it was mending, in the relieved smile of a pregnant lamia who needed something to relieve the stress, the sunflowers she was growing as a vampire’s anniversary present. Even in the cheap produce she would start to grow, and the shop assistants who started talking to her as if she wasn’t completely mad. She started her next book. Grandmother always said that a good magician knew when to heal, and when to harm.

 

Grandad Blackwood always said it was smart to make friends with your fellow supernaturals, since they gossiped like mad.

 

And then the phone call came.

 

She’d been asleep on her couch, laptop finally in sleep mode after falling asleep trying to block a scene. She’d wrapped herself in an old quilt that had been one of Tyene’s projects, charmed for dreamless sleep. She bolted up, fumbling for the silly pink rhinestone case Brienne had given her.

 

“Mmm?” she asked.

 

“Scrap?” The voice was as familiar as her own, nervous and unmistakably bone-tired. “Can you let me in?”

 

“Dany?” She swung herself off the couch, feeling cramped and like her body was deeply unhappy with her. She’d do stretches later to make up for it- twenty odd years of dance lessons had paid off nicely for that, at least. “You’re where?”

 

“Outside your new place- I like the door.” Dany sounded young, and Rhaenys was reminded fiercely of the little girl who had curled up in her bed to hide from the monsters. (Christ, Dany was barely old enough to drink legally.) She thundered down the steps, knowing it was loud enough to carry.

 

She threw open the door, and her heart broke anew.

 

Dany had always been a tiny little ghost of a girl- not quite five feet tall, with long pale hair and downcast eyes. After Drogo, she’d taken to wearing her hair in a pixie cut that made her look like a post-punk Tinker Belle. Her habit of wearing yesterday’s mascara as today’s eyeliner had never helped.

 

Now she also had a bruise on her cheek, and something between rage and shame and sheer exhaustion on her face.

 

“I have tea and whiskey,” she said, as if Dany didn’t look like seven shades of hell. “And a guest room.”

 

“I’d like that,” Dany said. “Does… who knows you live here?”

 

“You mean who can match up Celia Blackwood with Rhae Targaryen?” she asked, shepherding Dany up the steps. She was about six inches taller and considerably curvier than her aunt, and the clothing suited to her coloring would look strange on Dany. She’d need to find some- Arianne, maybe, who was between them in height. “It’s a semi-open secret, really. Mom’s family, Jon, Brienne, and Asha. I’m assuming Little Bit told you?”

 

Dany nodded. “Can I just sleep?”

 

Rhaenys kissed the top of her head, just as she had after Dany’s old nightmares, and smiled as gently as she could. “Of course- I’m warning you, Meraxes is curious and might come visit you in your sleep.”

 

The blonde gave a twitchy smile. “Carpet shark.”

 

Rhaenys tucked her aunt into the blue-and-bronze guest room, wrapping Tyene’s quilt over her, and went to make sure her red front door was properly locked.

 

~

_Once upon a time, there was a dreaming woman, with wild violet eyes that saw too much, and hair like moonlight._

_Living in a small, rural town on an island, it should come to no surprise that she was assumed to be a witch._

_As it was the mid-seventeenth century, it should be no surprise that she was killed for it._

_But her children came back, with fire and blood and witchcraft, and people decided that stoning and hanging women probably should no longer be done, and wasn’t it nicer when people had someone who would heal their sick children, as the younger daughter did?_

_And the family lived on their seaside home, and things reached an uneven peace until there was a family war between a daughter and a son of the house, and the son’s wife saw her eldest killed and took her own life, throwing herself into the sea._

_But she left a gift for her warring family, one with a poisonous result. The daughter’s son lost his beloved first wife, a plague, poisonings, and finally a fire-_

_-the small, pale-haired witch with eyes like chips of purple crystal and scars down her arms said that the grieving mother had made loving a Targaryen a poison, and she was perhaps not all that wrong._

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The constant low level noise of the city was slightly muted by the stone of the building and the spells protecting it, more of an echo. It reminded her of summer nights when it had been so still in Dragonstone House that she’d opened her big dormer windows and fell asleep on the reading bench, salt breezes tugging at her hair and the waves as a lullaby.

The city was more aggressive, less predictable, but so was she now.

She cut up fruit and pulled out cereal, figuring Dany wouldn’t want anything too heavy.

Her aunt’s hair had never been as prone to snarling and tangling sideways as Rhaenys’ had been, usually keeping neatly to the braids she had woven every morning before school. This short, it merely looked fashionably rumpled. (It would have been easy to hate her aunt, really, who had never needed to work to look intimidatingly pretty, but the five years between them made it easier, as did Uncle Doran’s quiet comments on how much she looked like Gran Martell when she was young.)

“So, what happened?” Rhaenys asked. The shop didn’t open ‘til nine, so she had nearly two hours to tease an answer out of Dany, and she’d already fired off an email to Elia asking for more details.

She supported her aunt’s need to choose her own pace in coping with shit, but she also didn’t want to be surprised by an army of conjurings at her door.

“I met a guy,” Dany said, making a beeline for the coffee. “I thought... “ She bit her lip. “I misjudged him, and I left.”

“Name, photo, lock of hair?” Rhaenys asked, only half joking. She could do damage with a lock of hair.  Dany flinched. “Maybe later.”

“That wouldn’t be a safe idea,” Dany said, biting her lip. “If you do it, he might beat you. Maybe with your family…” She sighed, straightening her shoulders in a way that was never a good sign. “It’s my fight, and I cannot ask you to do it if I’m too afraid. And I… I can’t let him do that to someone else.”

“And Uncle Oberyn will be happy to help, you know that. Bara, Brienne, Asha… maybe even little Sansa,” Rhaenys mused. The girl had the makings of a good digital researcher, with a talent for firewalls. “Smacking down assholes is something that a lot of us like doing, and Uncle likes you. Er, not in that way.”

Dany gave a ghost of a grin. “Did you ever do that DNA test on Asha?”

Rhaenys stuck out her tongue. “Wrong blood type, no, I didn’t do it on purpose.” She turned serious.  “I have to go downstairs and work, but I’ll be up for lunch, alright. You can call Gran if you want.”

And that was a hell of a concession, but Rhae had put down roots. She wasn’t going back.

~

Bard Dale looked at the sign suspiciously. It looked decent enough, but it would hardly be the first respectable-seeming business that was a front for a crime.

And tea leaves from a greenhouse seemed a bit silly, really, but Sigrid had mentioned how it was popular at her school and apparently not a diet drink. It was all a bit… odd.

He walked into the little vestibule, swinging open the door and setting off some windchimes.

The place seemed- relaxing, all stone and white-washed wood with plants scattered in what seemed like a haphazard style.  There was a radio playing music, and it seemed light and airy.

“Oh, hello!” the shopgirl said, smiling up at him. She was a small, curvy woman who was probably her late twenties, with a plaid button-up over a t-shirt and dirt streaked on one cheek. She seemed as inviting as the shop, even with her mismatched eyes. “I’m Celia, welcome, are you looking for anything in particular?”

“My daughter mentioned a tea that was popular in her school,” he said, looking at her for any sign of obvious wickedness.

She tilted her head. “Did she say what kind of tea? I have soothing tea, wake-up tea that has less of a crash than coffee, something to boost your immune system…”

“Soothing,” he said, recalling Sigrid’s stressed look lately. He’d been trying to avoid the overtime, but he also wanted to make sure they could eat. It had forced Sigrid into more of a caretaker role than a fifteen year old should have to deal with.

“Right,” she smiled. “Well, it’s lavender based, which is good for stress related conditions and helping with sleep. It can also help with a cranky stomach. I have an instruction sheet for it- basically, don’t mix with too much surgery stuff or downers. I also have a bit of orange peel, sage, and apple mixed in. I recommend honey as a sweetener, though I have a cousin who tries to do a cheap kiddy absinthe with it, possibly to get on my nerves.”

Bard must have shown his bafflement.

“She puts one of those honey candy pumpkins between her teeth and sips,” the shopkeeper explained, seeming pained. “I try not to tell the students that, though. Some of them might try it.”

“I’m surprised this shop is popular with students,” Bard said. Judging by the way her mismatched eyes crinkled at the corners, he must not have been as subtle as he thought he was.

“Well, better than drugs,” she shrugged. “And one of the college students said my tea was like frolicking with a roomful of puppies. Not sure how accurate that was, but it seems to help with common student aliments.”

Detective ailments, too, Bard thought ruefully. If it worked he might try some himself, especially given the case he was currently working.

He twitched at the reminder of the crime scene he felt he hadn’t fully gotten out of his skin, the gristle and remains that had barely been recognizable as human, which felt at odds with the warmth and charm of this shop.

“Let me know if this works,” she said, standing on a stool to reach a glass-fronted case, pulling out a box with purple sharpie writing.

Well, _that_ explained the teenage male population visiting the shop, a wicked voice judged.

“You haven’t had any problem with the students making mischief?” he asked instead.

She grinned. “I’m actually hoping to make most of my staff local- I’ve only been open a few weeks, and I do online orders, too. An old schoolmate’s family runs Highgarden Greenhouses, so they’ve been in talks with me to design a sort of limited edition line.” She rolled her eyes. “Note to self- never agree to make tea for study sessions. You end up with lawyers and spiked tea. Not at the same time, though…” she frowned, hopping off the stool. “Though drunken lawyers might make my life easier.”

He laughed, “Don’t I know it.”

He took one last look around the shop before leaving.

~

Dany had hated studying as a kid. Practical tests and applications she could handle, and she took debate and theater because Scrap and Ari both thought it would be better for her. She did art, too, languages, weirdly, but math or history or English?

It had taken a great deal of patience and had been part of why she had run away. The constant comparisons to Saint Dead Rhaegar and Rhaenys, who was usually found up a tree with a book in hand, had hurt like hell and she couldn’t take it.

Even magic was hard, and that had baffled Marg Tyrell, who was in her grade and was mostly brave enough to be her friend.

Some of it wasn’t all that bad- the quick and dirty, intuitive stuff that clicked in your bones and was thrown together out of need? She could do that like breathing, life with Drogo had proven that, as his Moon Priestess, handling some truly weird shit that happened out in the roads.

But the ritual and patience, the slow, river runs through everything magic that built upon itself and had the sort of strong, careless elegance that made her green with envy was something that was hard to hold in her hands.

Her aunt, in a mellow mood, had once told Dany that she was a lightning rod for magic, that she drew it to her in a thick cloud that was ever hovering. It made her useful for certain things- boosting spells, for instance, and Dany could have fortunes told clearly in her presence from someone with half a lick of talent.

But at the moment, she was currently going slightly cross-eyed at the deck of cards Malora Hightower had painted for Scrap in trade for help laying some new boundary spell at the Hightower Lighthouse. None of her reads had made sense, and she had tried a few of the other methods, though Rhae might kill her if she burned some of the plants without asking. Which she probably should have done at lunch, but she had instead decided to focus on things to reassure Rhaenys that she was together and there was nothing to worry about, like the fact that she hadn’t called her mother and asking what the Netflix password was.

The door opened, and Dany wondered if she should put away the cards. Probably not- she wouldn’t put it past Rhae to know something had been tried.

Rhaenys looked at the table, then sat down, taking the deck. “How long have you been trying?”

“Er…” Dany looked for a clock.

Her niece rolled her eyes. “What spread, Tink, and a few more details, for god’s sake? Four, Star…” She frowned, and her eyes went slightly glassy, long hands shuffling the deck.

 _Slap, Slap, Slap._ Three for Dany.

 _Slap, Slap, Slap._ Three for Rhae, forming a wide zig-zag.

 _Slap_. One card, dead center.

“Well, that’s new,” Dany blinked.

“Very new,” Rhaenys said. “A variation of the Star layout- three archetypes and a question?” She tilted her head. “I read.”

“Well, the last thing I read was Cosmo, so…” Dany said, mostly to lighten the atmosphere.

Rhaenys looked pained as she flipped the cards. “Eight of Swords- oh, don’t get me started, I am still pissed at them for feeding me a love potion. Queen of Cups, because I am always the Queen of Cups, _why_ did I get the family seer talent? Aunt Sheana is much better at grand announcements of doom and gloom.” She flipped over the last card, then blinked, tilting her head, and firmly flipping it back over. “Junk card.”

And Dany was in no place to question her.

“Five of Cups, Two of Wands- so don’t do fleeing on me, no matter how frightened you get,” Rhaenys said. “And the Magician, so… live up to your magical potential and beware of trickery.” She tilted her head. “I think Mal made the Five of Cups look like Uncle Oberyn. But it’s a card of mourning, and some say returning relatives…”

“How the hell do you keep it straight?” Dany asked, groaning.

“How can you fix the engine of your bike?” Rhae asked, going for a drink. “I remember most of my lessons, but honestly, I just wing it based on the art, reading the person who asks, and my own power. The cards are a tool, not the source of my power.”

Dany flipped the third card in Rhae’s spread, trying to remember what the Two of Cups reversed meant.

“We still have the big question,” she said, as a distraction.

“Hey, it looks like the old Harren place,” Dany said, before seeing Malora’s spidery writing. Even she knew The Tower was a creepy, doom and gloom card.

“Well,” Rhaenys said, not clearing the cards. “I’m calling Uncle Doran now, alright?”

Dany nodded miserably.

~

Bard was studying the scene and trying to keep his breathing shallow.

“That’s the third this week,” Barristan Selmy said, looking at what was left of their corpse.

Bard made a noncommittal noise and instead focused on the symbols painted around the room, symbols done in a style that seemed vaguely familiar…

“Dr. Selmy, the cut across the throat was done first, right?” he asked, suddenly enough to make Tauriel startle. He couldn’t help but smile a bit at that- Tauriel was an odd mix between terrifyingly professional and personally awkward.

“Aye- I’d say someone a good bit taller slashed his throat from behind, why?” he asked.

Bard looked at the man, who had to have been five foot seven at least in life, and thought of a woman with mismatched eyes who needed a stool to reach that high. “Just checking,” he said, casually.

He would still stop by Summerhall Greenery at the end of his shift, though, because some of the odd, spiky designs were very, very like the ones Celia had painted on the walls of the shop, and he was hoping she could tell him more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tarot readings crossreferenced through a few places, but eventually I went with Rhaenys' "I honestly wing it" and http://www.tarotlore.com/tarot-cards/. If I am horribly, horribly off, please let me know.


	3. Chapter 3

Rhaenys did not follow in her Martell relative’s footsteps and take up demonology as a job in all of its varying forms, from Arianne’s sales of rare works to Obara the PI. She knew the forms and could, if needed, blend it with her spellwork- the chainmail wrap of protections around her place proved that- but she never had the urge to go poking at dead things for fun.

 

That being said, she also had gotten suspended so many times for fights in school. Most of which involved Rhaenys going “leave this person alone” and ending with a punch or six.

 

So her tolerance for Dany’s wallowing in self-pity was gone- yes, yes, it was something more, but Dany was possibly putting people in danger.

 

Uncle Doran had promised to send someone over, but apparently the family was stretched thin, so it might take a few days.

 

“Dany, just… what the hell?” she said finally, laying out a cup of soothing tea. Dany sniffed and did that little “inner mantra” habit she had, the one that required a bit of patience to deal with but actually calmed her down enough to focus on the task at hand. 

 

“So there was a guy,” Dany started. “I didn’t actually like him, and I didn’t give him the time of day- he was…” Dany’s pretty pixie face scrunched up. “Deeply wrong.”

 

And considering Dany occasionally had the perception of a stoned frat boy, Rhaenys thought that probably was supposed to be “horror movie villain” or “devolving serial killer.” But since commenting would just devolve into an argument, she stayed quiet.

 

“But he kept trying, and going to dinner in a public spot didn’t seem too bad,” Dany said, biting her lip. Dany always loved to be loved, Rhaenys thought, remembering how reckless Dany could be.

 

“I was wrong- magic is pretty good at ambushes,” Dany said. “And when I realized exactly what he worked with, I kind of drugged him and ran away.”

 

Rhaenys pinched her nose and prayed to whatever power was listening for equanimity. “What was he working with? And what did you drug him with?”

 

“Sacrificial magic, violence as power, and some illegal drugs,” Dany rattled off, chin up but not meeting her eyes. “And I found some oleander outside the hotel, so…”

 

Rhaenys remembered being the one to teach Dany about the plants she should never, ever touch. Monkshood, oleander, that hogweed that caused photosensitivity…

 

“You did what?”

 

“It should have killed him, then I salt and burn the body, I got the drill from your uncle,” Dany shouted. “But he apparently got better!”

 

“Yes, well, if he dabbled in illegals and other poisons, a limited immunity would happen,” Rhaenys pointed out. “Slitting his throat would have been better.”

 

“It was too messy, I would have gotten caught,” and oh, from the girl who could get a dress dirty in the time it took for Rhaenys to get food for her, that was rich. 

 

Rhaenys stared at her aunt. “And you think he’s following you?” Dany fleeing to her apartment rather than Shaena and Rhaella, just like this was another nightmare, the quiet, careful silences, and what was really going on?

 

Because Dany wouldn’t normally be afraid still- mad as hell, calmly stating her plans to destroy the fucker, but not frightened. It had never sat well on her.

 

“Yes,” Dany said. “The reanimated corpse in Ohio kind of decided it.”

 

“Necromancy,” Rhaenys said, trying not to sound sharp. She’d have to give a quiet warning, see if any of the other supernaturals knew… and maybe risk asking Roose Bolton.

 

Nope, she wasn’t that desperate.

 

~

 

Celia was in the shop again when he swung by, singing to herself as she was labeling some boxes.

 

“Hello,” she said, smiling up at him. “Returning already?”

 

“I had a question, actually,” he said, and she looked around the shop, which was had the slightly ransacked air that any retail employee would know meant a rush.

 

“Well, it's probably a good thing you missed the lunch rush,” she said. “It’s nothing fancier than soup and scones, but occasionally we get meetings.” She looked around with a faintly rueful look. “And Marei had to leave for class just in time to miss the clean-up. We do have two scones left, if you like orange.”

 

The faint scent of the murder scene nearly buried by the tea boxes and plants rose at the thought of food, making his stomach roil. “Not right now, thanks.”

 

She waved at the free chair across from her. “Ask away.”

 

“The pattern on your walls, what is it from?” he asked, watching her brow furrow.

 

“The pattern? It’s runes- silly, I know, but my dad was kind of considered a prodigy with them, and I learned them to feel closer to him,” she answered. “There are four different styles here, though so if you can point out a specific one…?”

 

He looked around, seeing the differences. “The one behind the cash register?”

 

“Well, less runes, more Phoenician,” she admitted. “I started learning it when I was six. The purple was a historical injoke, actually- they were famous for their purple dyes.”

 

He raised his eyebrows, and she blushed. “Some people had father-daughter softball, some have father-daughter dances, my dad liked languages.”

 

He pointed out the symbols decorating the tea cases along the back wall, which was also different from the crime scene runes.

 

“Szekler script,” she said, smiling faintly. “Old Hungarian, to wikipedia. Dad’s favorite.”

 

He looked at the starkest wall, or as close as you could get with the jewelbox color job, the one with symbols that matched the crimescene. “And that one?”

 

“Younger Futhark,” she said, frowning. “It is the most well known, I think, of different symbols, except maybe the Linears… though I might be speaking as an ametuer cryptologist,” she admitted. 

“If I say it’s all Greek to me…?” he said, aiming for joking. 

 

“Norse, basically. I know some people like to claim they use it for divination, but…” she shrugged. “I used it because my husband was mad for Viking stories. Probably shouldn’t have, but…”

 

“Was?” Bard asked.

 

“He died- there is a terrible stretch of road in my old hometown, the locals call in the Bone Road because it usually kills three or four people in a year,” she sighed. “He was drunk, and he knew I’d be pissed, so he wanted to get home before I did and go to sleep. It was sheeting rain, and…” She shrugged, looking terribly lost. “He had to have realized I’d have hated him taking the road in that weather more than getting drunk at Chat’s, but I could never argue with him.”

 

“Oh,” Bard said, trying to shut down the nasty, suspicious part of his brain that thought about things like accomplices. He had no proof except for her knowledge of something that you could probably find on the internet. 

 

She grinned at him, something fey and bleak. “Don’t worry, Mr. Detective, everything was aboveboard and you aren’t buying things from a murderess.”

 

That startled him a little. “Wait, how did you…”

 

“Sweetling,” she said, tossing her head and making her glossy black curls shake, “you are so far from subtle I doubt you could find it with a map and a guide.”

 

He worked undercover, once, he reflected. Then Sigrid was born and he hated the thought of leaving his wife to deal with a fussy baby. Em had never complained, really, but he’d had a sinking feeling he was only beginning to understand her worries.

 

Also, getting shot, which was painful and resulted in his partner saying enough ‘I told you so’s to make him try to look up the guidelines for justifiable homicide. (He was still on painkillers then. And he still didn’t talk to Thorin.)

 

He frowned. “Is there any good sources for the Younger F…”

 

“Futhark,” she said, swirling a shape on the table’s wood with a long finger. For a second, he half-swore he saw a glimmer of something.... “Is this related to a case?”

 

She didn’t look eager, at least, he reflected. Mildly curious, but more wary.

 

“I can’t say,” he hedged, watching as she seemed to stare off for a moment, before sighing.

 

“Google, probably, though there are a few books on the subject. There might be something along the lines of a university online dictionary, I know Penn did one on Sumarian, for instance,” she mused. “I’m not really an expert- I’m thinking of sanding down the wall and redoing it in another language when I come up with a design I like better. Theon was fairly interested, though, so I suppose it was a grieving strategy on my part.” She paused, and her eyes flicked almost involuntarily to the ceiling, something deeply unhappy flashing across her face before smoothing over. “I got the text I used from Bag End bookshop, it’s still upstairs.”

 

“That would be helpful,” he said.

 

“Ah, not entirely altruistic,” she admitted. “I need a bit of help- my aunt, and she’s actually my aunt, despite being younger than me, she has a bit of a stalker, and I wanted to at least see if I could get a restraining order. She fled from… Portland, I think she said, and I don’t know if he’s in the city…”

 

“Is she alright?” he asked.

 

“A black eye, some fading bruises, but I think most of the injuries were to her spirit,” Celia admitted, rubbing her nose. “I fully admit, part of this is having background in case he breaks in and I have to toss his ass out a window.”

 

“You say to the cop,” he pointed out, making sure to smile.

 

“Please, I show them tiny little blonde Dany, and everyone will fall over her,” Celia laughed. “I’ll get the book.”

 

“And I’ll try to brainstorm options,” he promised. Despite her joking, there was something tight around her eyes, and she looked out the window before going out a nearly hidden by decor.

  
He wondered if it was just stress, or if that tiny flash of something towards the end meant she was hiding something.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the Dance of the Dragons is to blame for the Curse.


End file.
